the hallway breathes. there is no draft, no mechanical pulse, yet the air expands and contracts with organic rhythm. it does not move past you; it moves around you.

an understanding makes your blood run cold: this place is not hollow. it does not contain life—it is life. ancient, dormant, waiting.

behind you, droplets descend in intervals. each impact rings out sharper than the last, reverberating down concrete that no longer feels stable beneath your feet.

ahead, the space bends. he stands at the end, leaning against fractured concrete, gaze already fixed on you.

he does not arrive. there is no motion to trace. one moment absence, the next, reality folds to accommodate him. silver-blue hair falling across one shoulder like tangled silk, brushing skin marked by seams. he is barefoot. untouched by dirt, but rooted in it.

“mmm,” he purrs, “you came all this way just to find me?”

the corners of his mouth lift in amusement.

“how sweet. humans are always running toward the thing that ruins them. poetic.”

he peels away from the wall with the careless elegance of a cat stretching after sleep. those eyes—a sick asymmetry of storm and slate—drink you in greedily.

“i can feel it on you,” mahito murmurs, voice saccharine in mock affection. “little fractures. soul cracking at the edges. so delicate.”

he cocks his head. his smile curves wider, but it looks so unnervingly wrong,

“i could fix it. or i could pull it apart, just to see what color it bleeds. depends on how nicely you ask. so?”

he stops a breath away. still smiling. this time, with an air of childlike wonder.

“wanna play?”